


Pleasin' for the Season

by americalovesthecockpit



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America's POV, Christmas, Crack, Lactation, Lactation Kink, M/M, Male Lactation, UKUS, USUK - Freeform, WTF, lulz, religious!America, sodomite!England
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americalovesthecockpit/pseuds/americalovesthecockpit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve, and extremely religious!America just wanted to spend it doing nice, Christian things. But then sodomite!England shows up at America's door. He's drunk, accidentally gives himself breasts with his magic, and they may or may not be tempting to supposedly straight America. Total crack, male lactation, USUKUS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleasin' for the Season

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is about extremely religious!America and sodomite!England. Kind of like an AU, but those are the only things different. (I wrote these versions of them in two other fics, but this one is unrelated to those. I just really like writing them like this. Plus it seemed fitting for Christmas, eh?)
> 
> I need to include a warning that America says some very un-PC, offensive, and homophobic things. Don't read if you are offended easily. Also I'm going to warn for this being TOTAL CRACK and yes, there is male lactation. There is sexual content but it is mostly for lulz … it's not very sexy.
> 
> Written in America's POV.

T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except for England who showed up drunk and naked at my house.

Yeah, I rhymed ‘house’ with ‘house.’ WHAT OF IT?

I was in a hurry. Fixing my tie and making Tony’s dinner before I had to leave. I had his bowl (it looks like a dog food bowl but it’s an alien bowl) out and was about to dump the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets I made him into it.

“TONNNNNY!” I yelled up the stairs. “Dinner’s rea—“

DING DONG!

That was the doorbell ringing. I wouldn’t just yell ‘ding dong’ out of nowhere, as that means penis and I don’t like to talk about penises.

“Oh, I hope it isn’t Christmas carolers,” I said as I went to open it, still with the nugget pan in my hand. Not that I don’t enjoy Christmas music, because I DO! I love how Christian holidays have like a million songs and other religions have almost none. Jews have what, like two? Haha. And that’s counting Adam Sandler’s song. But anyway. I didn’t want it to be Christmas carolers because it’s always weird when people come caroling at your house. I mean, you just stand there awkwardly as they all stare at you and sing. It’s weird :/

But it wasn’t Christmas carolers. It was drunk, naked England, as I have established earlier, and you were probably looking forward to that part because you are a sinful pervert, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna judge. That’s God’s job. You can explain to HIM why you lust after countries when you die a sad, lonely death after accidentally choking yourself to get off while reading stories like this in your room or whatever it is you kids do with your Smartphones nowadays.

Anyway, as soon as I opened the door, chicken nuggets went EVERYWHERRRRRE.

“WHAAA!” I yelped, tossing the pan up in shock. That’s why chicken nuggets went EVERYWHERRRRE. 

England had been looking all smug and smirking and all that, but then when he saw the nugs go everywhere, he looked confused and swayed a little as he leaned against the doorframe. “Wha the … what the hell was that?” he slurred.

“Wh-wh-where are your clothes? !” I asked, as that was a more pressing matter than chicken nuggets. It wasn’t a big deal. I’ll just pick them up and wipe the dust off. Tony won’t know the difference. FIVE SECOND RULE!

“I had six beers tonight,” slurred England. 

“THAT DOESN’T ANSWER MY QUESTION!” 

England had nothing on but one sock and his eyelids were hung at different lengths. He had to lean onto my doorframe for balance because he kept swaying. This was even more awkward than Christmas carolers! If only they were here to tell England don we now our gay apparel. England needed some apparel. And if he wore it it’d definitely be gay, as he is a godless sodomite. 

“What are you doing here?” I asked, looking everywhere but at England and his jutting peninsula. “It’s Christmas Eve!”

“I was in town for a World Meeting,” said England drunkly. “Figured I’d come by … give you your present …”

“What World Meeting? It’s Christmas!  There ain’t no meetings around Christmas!”

“Uh …”

“It’s always ‘World Meetings,’ isn’t it? ! You always say you’re in town ~COINCIDENTALLY~ for a ‘World Meeting’ whatever the heck that is, and you need to see me. Can’t you think of a better excuse? !”

“Not after six beers.”

England was always trying to get into my pants. He’s a gay, you see. Well, he claims to like women too, but in my book if you’re a dude and you like other dudes, it doesn’t matter how many women you’ve been with too, you’re a gay. And my book is the Bible so I know I’m right. Anyway, England has always been especially smitten with _me_. But he can never have me, as I am STRAIGHT. Thus he constantly tries to RECRUIT me, a hobby of the gays, but he never wins of course as I am totally hetero, you guys. But my rejecting him only makes England want me more. It’s a vicious cycle. A gay cycle (note: that is different from a bicycle.) (Bicycles aren’t actually bi.) (Though if they were, they’d be gay cycles, and if you’re confused, read the beginning of this paragraph again.)

“I came to give you your present,” drawled England. “Sorry I didn’ wrap it. I unwrapped it.”

“That’s not how presents work, England. See what alcohol does to your brain? The one who gives the present _wraps_ it, and the one who receives the present _unwraps_ i — OH HEAVENS YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT YOUR BODY, AREN’T YOU?”

England did one of those hiccup burp things where for a second you think you’re gonna throw up a little but then you don’t. “Yeah.”

“EEEWWW!”

I wanted an iPad Mini for Christmas, not another man’s naked body! Finland was way off this year.

“You can do whatever you want,” said England. “Top, bottom, gentle, rough, it doesn’ matter to me. It’s your gift. Do whatever you fancy.”

Sooooo I slammed the door on him.

“Oi, don’ leave me out here to freeze!” yelled England from the other side. 

“Don’t you have some gay guy to warm you up with his big gay orgy or whatever it is you gays do? I’m sure that’s hot.” Wait. “I MEANT HOT LIKE TEMPERATURE WISE NOT HOT LIKE I LIKE IT AUUGGH—“

“Do you even know what an orgy is?”

“SOMETHING GAY!”

“Just lemme in,” he said, still all slurred. “… ‘s not very Christian of you to leave your fellow man out to freeze in the cold, is it?”

GRRR! England got me on that one. This was one of those situations where I had to ask WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? Not another dude, obviously. But I guess he wouldn’t let even a sodomite freeze. Only burn. (Genesis 19.) (Yes, that was a reference to Sodom and Gomorrah.) (Biblical BURRRRN!)

So out of the goodness of my hetero heart, I had to let England inside. I promptly wrapped him and his naked indecency, as Jesus would, with a Snuggie, so that I would not have to look at it.

I made him sit down on the couch after I laid down some newspaper. I didn’t want his gay butt germs on my couch. Lord only knows where that butt has been! (With other men.)

“Gosh darn it to heck, this is gonna make me late,” I said, standing over him. “I was already in a rush … I don’t really have time to drop you off at your hotel …”

“I didn’ get a hotel,” said England. “I only planned on spendin’ the night with you.”

“Well, joke’s on you because you know how I’m spending the night?”

“Losin’ your virginity? You can lose it on the couch right now.”

“No, England! The only thing you’re supposed to lose on the couch is the remote! Like, in between the cushions, I mean. Maybe food or change, too. What the heck, you distracted me! I was gonna say I’m spending the night AT CHURCH!”

“Tha’s a weird place to wanna lose your virginity, but hey I’m not picky.”

“I’M NOT LOSING MY VIRGINITY AT CHURCH!” I yelled. “I’m going for the Christmas Eve service, GOSH!”

“ _I’ll_ give you Christmas Eve service, heh heh … _urp_ —“ England burped. “Ugh, tasted a little vomit with that one.”

“England, you’re drunk. Go home.”

What was I gonna do? The Christmas Eve church service was gonna start soon, and I needed to hurry up and get there because it’s always packed on Christmas Eve. All those only-go-on-Christmas-and-Easter people. You FAIR WEATHER CHRISTIANS. God judges you for only going on the holidays, you know. And so does the rest of the church. Because I hate that it’s hard to find a seat during this time of because of YOU PEOPLE. I like at least one seat between me and the next person, OKAY? What was I talking about … oh yeah. But now I wasn’t gonna make it in time because of England. I could either leave him in my house alone to do God knows what like sniff my undies or pleasure himself by sticking my shampoo bottle up his butt or whatever gays do, or risk sending him off drunk in a cab into the world, not knowing if he would make it to a hotel safely.

WHAT DO? ?

… Jesus? Why do you never answer that question? :(

NO WAIT. Then I was struck with BRILLIANCE. I needed to go to church, and I have a sinful sodomite in my house who NEEDS church … 

“England, you can come WITH me!” I said happily. Then my smile disappeared because I realized I said come. “Oop—“

“To church? Nah, no thanks. If I show up staggerin’ and bladdered to church, I don’ think God will be too pleased with me.”

“Well, no, but I don’t think he was too pleased when you did all that gay stuff either,” I said. “Like when I was leaving for a World Meeting — oh gosh, now you got me doing it too. Anyway, I was leaving and Tony and Whaley were like ‘Hey we made you a video! Watch it on the plane!’ and I was like OKEY THANKS! And then you were all weird and like ‘Hey I made you a video too. You probably _shouldn’t_ watch it on the plane’ and I was like :I  (Don’t ask how I pronounced a poker face. I’ll let that be a Christmas mystery.) But then later I DID watch it on the plane and it was a SEXUALLY EXPLICIT VIDEO!”

:O

“I don’t remember that,” said England.

I hesitated. “Um. Now that I think about it, maybe I am confusing something with a commercial.”

“They show someone watchin’ a sexually explicit video on a commercial?”

“No … not that part … just the other — GRRR STOP QUESTIONING ME! Besides, even if you haven’t done THAT specifically, you’ve done other gay stuff, of which God didn’t like.”

“Hey.” England was smirking at me, slowly lowering the Snuggie. His chest was now visible. “I really like that suit you have on. It’s rare to see you dress nicely. Not that I wouldn’t do you in sweats and trainers, but somethin’ about that suit _really_ turns me on …” 

And then he was rubbing his nipple.

“Hey, knock that off!” I scolded. “I’m dressed up because I’m going to CHURCH! You’re supposed to dress up for church because God judges you, even your clothes, and he has a very picky and critical eye for fashion that would put even the most judgmental  sixteen year old popular girl in class to shame, and because he wants only the best in heaven, which is a gated community.”

“… the hell was that? Are you drunk too?”

“No. Now hurry and get dressed. I’ll let you borrow some of my clothes. Please don’t have gay thoughts while wearing them.”

So I got England some clothes, fed Tony his chicken nuggets, and fed Whaley too. He eats krill and stuff. Did you know whales DON’T eat through the blowhole? That was a lesson I learned very quickly. That’s why it took me so long to become friends with him. But live and learn! :)

I was rushing around doing all my last minute things. You know, making sure the doors were locked, making sure I had my wallet and keys, taking my last pee pee trip, that sorta thing. Then I realized I was forgetting something very important!

“I’m forgetting something very important!” I realized. “SANTA!”

“Nnnhuh?” England startled awake on the couch as I rushed into the living room. He hadn’t put any clothes on yet.

“I might not get back until late! What if Santa comes while I’m gone?”

“Urrgh … it’s like 6:30 …” slurred England. 

England always knows the time, even when drunk. Because he has a well-known, well-loved big clock. (I said CLOCK so don’t get too excited.) 

“So? The service is at seven and lasts an hour, plus add a little extra time to talk to people afterwards and pretend I care about the stupid boring crap in their lives like their kid got an A in basket weaving class at college, plus the drive home, it’ll be almost NINE O’CLOCK GOOD LAWD! That’s almost my bedtime!”

I know Santa (okay, Finland) is only supposed to come when you’re asleep because he knows when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake so I better be good for goodness sake but remember, he’s got a LOT of houses to go to. Do the math, and he’s gotta start somewhere. The first people he does are gonna get their presents early. Those people might be ME. And what if he comes while I’m gone and I haven’t left out milk and cookies? He’s gonna be seriously CHEESED OFF.

And if he’s cheesed he might not give me an iPad Mini. And I NEED an iPad Mini. There’s just soooo many things I need to do that are too big for my iPhone and too small for my iPad. A couple inches makes a big difference! Ask England, I’m sure he knows about inches making a difference, but in a gay way because he’s a sodomite.

“OH NOOOOOO!” I shrieked from the kitchen. “It’s a travesty!”

“What is?” asked England.

“I’M OUT OF MILK AND COOKIES!”

D:

It was a nightmare! It’s Christmas Eve, I’m running late for church, and now I’m out of milk and cookies for Santa! I never should have eaten Captain Crunch Berries for dinner last night. No wait, it was the OOPS ALL BERRIES kind. Yeah, they make a Captain Crunch Berries that’s ALL BERRIES! Mmm, yeah. Turns your poop green though. Anyway, I had like three bowls of that stuff last night for dinner, and used up all the milk! As for the cookies, well I did have some. But then I ate them all watching a marathon of old Christmas classics like Rudolph and Santa Claus is Coming to Town and Prancer. Y’all remember Prancer? That was a good movie.

“I hope some place will be open for me to buy some more,” I said. “Like a convenience store. They’re open Christmas Eve, right? Because they’re all run by Muslims and they don’t celebrate Christmas. They celebrate Ramada Inn.” 

“Ohh …” sighed England. “I’ve had too many beers to listen to your nonsense tonight …”

“Six isn’t _that_ many.” England is a lightweight. I don’t even drink as I am a teetertotter, but I bet even I could handle six beers without being _that_ drunk.

“Six _American_ beers isn’t that many,” he scoffed. “Six _British_ beers is. Are. Whatever, I’ve had too many to properly conjugate tonight.”

I was worried. I was already late — how was I gonna have time to find a place to buy milk and cookies too? And if I bought them on the way home from church, I risked Santa coming while I was gone and missing him. I needed to figure something out and FAST! The clock was ticking! I tried to do quick do-I-have-time-for-this math in my head.

“Quick, England, what time is it?”

“Hold on, let me check Big Ben.” I was in the kitchen so I don’t know for sure, but judging from the rustling sound, I’m pretty sure he fondled himself for a moment. “6:34.”

“Ohhh, there’s no way I’ll make it in time! Santa might come while I’m gone and there won’t be milk and cookies out!”

“So?”

“SO? ! SO YOU LEAVE OUT CARROTS FOR THE EASTER BUNNY, ALSO CARROTS FOR THE REINDEER, AND MILK AND COOKIES FOR SANTA! DUH!”

Everyone knows that! You GOTTA leave that stuff out. That’s how you thank them for their service to our country. SEMPER FI, you guys. SEMPER FI.

“CHRISTMAS IS RUUUUUUINED!” I exclaimed. Then started softly weeping. :’D

“Are … are you cryin’?” I heard England ask from the other room. “Over bloody milk and biscuits?”

“NO OF COURSE NOT!” I yelled back. “I’m crying over milk and _cookies_ because I’m not a dog or Hardee’s.”

“Don’t cry.” That voice sounded much closer and I opened my eyes and England was in the kitchen now, without the Snuggie. He wasn’t wearing anything but that one sock. It was argyle for all of the many of you wondering. “I can get you milk and cookies.”

I sniffled. “You can?” I asked hopefully, not looking at his danger zone.

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank you, England! Thank you so much! I knew deep, deep down, even deeper than your penis-loving prostate, there was a shred of goodness in you somewhere! I’d hug you if I didn’t want to get penis on me.”

“Heh, you’re welcome. I can make them through a spell.”

… oh.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Oh, don’t even bother. I thought you were being serious.”

When will England learn? Magic isn’t real, except when it’s by Jesus or on a school bus. The magic school bus. Good show.

But England’s magic was NOT a good show. England’s magic was SATANIC. All non-Jesus magic is. Because by trying to do magic, you are implying that you have better powers than Jesus. Jesus doesn’t like anyone trying to one-up him. That’s just rude. That’s why all witchcraft and the occult and Harry Potter are all considered BAD by the church. 

“I can do it,” said England. “Give me a chance. It’s a simple spell … it’ll only take a few minutes …”

“No witchcraft in my house! WITCHCRAFT IS BAD! That chick from Bewitched did witchcraft and look what happened to her. They replaced her husband with some completely random guy and put a spell on her so she would never tell the difference. I don’t want that to happen with me.”

“I’ll prove to you I can do it.”

“AUUUGH!” I threw up my hands and went to fix my tie. 

I went to the bathroom to use the mirror. I was never very good with ties. I’d ask England to do it for me but I don’t want to give him an excuse to touch me. He’d make it all awkward and gay.

He always does. Every little chance he gets, he takes. Little things like taking just a little bit too long to pick up that pen he dropped on the floor so I can see his butt, or asking me if his breath stinks so he has a chance to breathe his hot breath on me, or purposely going to the bathroom at the same time as me so he can use the urinal next to me and discretely check out my package. Everyone knows you should put at least one urinal between you and the guy next to you! Just like seats at the church. And you DON’T check out other guys’ packages! You either look up, or at what YOU’RE doing. Definitely not to the side. This is GUY CODE. All guys know it, DUH! England just wanted to take a peek. But don’t worry, boys and girls. I shielded my wiener with my other hand so he couldn’t see.

Eventually he got less and less subtle. Now whenever he gets drunk he’s very open about it. He outright asks for sex. And I’m like PSSSH NO. 

He always whines like, “But whyyy? It’ll feel good, I promise.”

And I’m always like, “Because being gay is a sin and makes baby Jesus cry.”

And England is like, “It’s fun though.”

And I’m like, “Of course you think that. You were born a sodomite.”

And England’s like, “I thought you believed homosexuality was a choice?”

And I’m like, “Uh …” 

And England’s like, “Just give it a chance.”

And I’m like, “I can’t have sex with you because I’m STRAIGHT!”

And he’s like, “If you’re straight how come you’ve never even once dated a woman?”

And l’m like, “Shut up, England.”

It never ends! England never seems to understand that I’m totally one hundred percent hetero. If he was a chick, things might have been a little different. MIGHT. I’d want a _proper_ relationship. Take him courting. I mean HER. Because in this very hypothetical situation England is a woman. Anyway, yeah, I’d take her courting and do WHOLESOME things like share ice cream floats and hold hands walking down the beach and have picnics in the park and there would be nothing gay about that. And I’d go no further than a sweet, chaste kiss on his — HER — mouth because we would save it for our wedding night, like Jesus wants. Mmmyep. That’s what I’d do.

But none of that matters because England is a dude soooo yeah.

I gave up on the tie and went back into the kitchen. It was a hot mess.

SMOKE EVERYWHERE! Why didn’t my smoke alarms go off? There was so much smoke it was like God was smiting Sodom and Gomorrah right in my kitchen.

“England!” I yelled. “Did you try to bake cookies? ! You are both a liar AND a horrible baker!” I assumed it was the cookies but who knows. England’s so bad at cooking it could have been from the milk, LOL.

I grabbed opened a window and started to fan the smoke. When it started to clear, I saw England lying on the floor, facing the wall. He wasn’t moving.

“GOOD LAWD!” I exclaimed, rushing over to him. “You’re gonna make me even later for church!”

England stirred, and he rolled over toward me, onto his back. And then _I_ jumped back.

“WHOA!” I yelled.

“Nggh …” England groaned. His eyes slowly opened but he didn’t see what I saw because he didn’t react yet.

You wanna know what I saw? BOOBS

No, no, I am sorry. That was not proper of me to say. He had breasts. Two big — like really big, like D cups at least — breasts on his chest. Everything else seemed the same. He was still very much a dude. I took a quick, VERY QUICK, glance down between his legs just to make sure. Yes, he still had a winky. AND breasts!

I looked away, as it seemed indecent to look at them. “England, what did you do? !”

“Whaddaya mean?” England shakily sat up. When he did, his boobs (sorry, can’t help but say that word!) rose up with him, and he noticed them. “The hell? Oh, fuck, I really cocked up this spell, didn’t I …”

I threw a hand towel over England’s chest. His breasts were so big it barely covered them both :/ “You did what? !”

England didn’t hold the towel and it fell into his lap. I bet he did that on purpose … “I was tryin’ to make a spell for milk and cookies — honest. I was really tryin’. But since I have had six beers …”

“What are you saying? That you were so drunk you messed up the spell and somehow accidentally gave yourself two full, firm, perky D-cups?”

“… why did you describe them like that …”

“Because I don’t believe you! Who could make such a mistake? !”

“I told you I had six beers.”

“I don’t care how drunk you are! No one could mess up THAT bad! You did this … ON PURPOSE!”

DUN DUN DUN 

(Drama.)

“I swear, I didn’t,” said England. “It was an honest mistake. Though now that I think about it, it wasn’t too bad of an idea, seeing as how you keep staring at them.”

“WHAT? !” I snapped. “I-I-I am not staring at them. I tried to cover them up like a good Christian.”

“Wait a minute, you don’t even believe in magic. How can you accuse me of fucking up the spell on purpose if you don’t even believe spells work?”

:/ 

That was quite a quandary.

“Well … obviously …” I started, thinking very hard. “Um … well … SATAN … must have had something to do with this. Y-yeah. SATAN. Satan is very real, and he can do magic too, but it is BAD magic, like making breasts on a dude. Thanks a lot for inviting Satan into my kitchen, England!”

England pointed to his face. “My eyes are up here, America,” he said, smirking.

“I-I wasn’t looking, GOSH!”

“It’s okay. You can look. I don’t mind.”

“N-no, I refuse,” I said, looking all around the kitchen, everywhere except England’s chest. 

“Hell, you can even touch them,” he said. 

“EEEW, NO!”

England was giving me that look. That come hither, come do me look. All seductive, a smirk, lowered eyelids (okay, one was a little lower than the other, as he was still pretty drunk.) He inhaled deeply on purpose, making his breasts slowly rise up and then fall again, and I only saw it out of the corner of my eye, I swear!

“Fine,” he said finally. “I guess I’ll have to do it then.”

I was confused. “Huh? Do what?” I looked and England was cupping one of his breasts with his hand. It was so big it didn’t fit in his hand. “Oh-ohhh,” I said shakily.

“Like what you see?” England teased. He gave his breast a squeeze. “Your face looks a little red. Could be embarrassment, I suppose. Or from the smoke inhalation. But I’d like to think you are enjoying this.” He squeezed harder. And something went squirting out. 

Yes, from his nipple!

“Jiminy Christmas!” I exclaimed. “What was that? !”

“Uh …” England looked just as shocked as me.

We both looked down at the liquid on the floor. It was white. But it wasn’t … you know. C to the u to the m.

It was thinner and didn’t smell as bad. Not that I know what that sinful stuff smells like, as I have neither had sex with other men nor pleasured myself as those are both terrible sins, but ya know. I’ve heard it smells less than pleasant, especially if you have a poor diet, like with lots of junk food. But I wouldn’t know.

“Oh my God, it’s milk,” said England, quite surprised. “I gave myself not only tits but _lactating_ ones.”

“You better not crap cookies.”

“I see now how I made this mistake.” England seemed to be really pondering this. “The spells for these two things are very similar, and since I have had six beers, I couldn’t remember it properly.”

“Well, reverse the spell!”

Pondering England was suddenly gone and replaced with drunk, pervert England again. “Oh no. Not yet. Not now that I see what effect it has on you.”

“It has no effect!”

England suddenly stood up and took a step closer to me. He was right in front of me. “I think it does. I think I may be witnessing you being … turned on. I’ve always wondered what that looked like.” He cupped his breasts again, one in each hand. “I’d love for you to touch them,” he said, SEXUALLY. “And squeeze them.” As he said that, he gave them a little squeeze, and milk dribbled out of each of them, trickling down his skin.

“Th-that’s disgusting,” I said, taking a step back. “Guys aren’t turned on by breast milk. I know you don’t know what straight guys like because you’re a gay, but we think it’s gross.”

“Touch them.”

“What! No way.”

“I want you to touch them and tell me what you think.”

“I-I’m gonna be late for church …” I _needed_ church. Pretty bad.

England did a little hop in place. Just to make them bounce. Why did I watch them bounce? ! “It’ll just take a second.”

The milk had stopped flowing, but his breasts were still a little wet from where it had trickled down but not yet completely dried.

England caught me staring. “Lick it off.”

“NOOOOO!”

And then I ran out of the room because then I REALLY needed church.

  
X

I was late. Really late. By the time I managed to convince England to put away his boobs and get dressed, the service had already started. We hopped out of the car and raced toward the door, hoping there were some seats left.

… or at least _I_ did. England was taking his sweet time.

“Hurry up!” I yelled back at him.

England walked with a hand on his back. “I’m coming, I’m coming, Christ,” he said, taking the Lord’s name in vain. “I’m not used to this extra weight. It’s a bit hard on my back.”

I’d made England wear layers. A tank top, a regular shirt, a sweater, and then a coat over that. Like a big puffy coat. I couldn’t risk good, church-going folk seeing a dude with a bodacious rack. What the … did I just refer to England’s chest as a ‘bodacious rack’? MY GOSH. What has become of me? Forgive me, Jesus :(

England was starting to sober up, thank the LAWD, but he wasn’t completely there. He did a lot of whining in the car. Stupid crap like ‘I don’t wanna go to church’ and ‘Slow down, you’re driving too fast’ and ‘I wish you’d reach up under this shitty snowman sweater and squeeze my leaking tit.’ That sorta stuff.

When I got to the church, the peoples at the front informed me that I was too late. They were full! D:

“Nooo, please, I have to go to church!” I pleaded. “Can’t I just stand in the back? Please? !”

“It’s 7:45,” said the good church man usher.

“7:47,” corrected England, nonchalantly adjusting himself.

“Yeah — and the service is over at eight,” said the church guy. “There’s not much point now. It’s almost over.”

“B-but …!” I started, getting panicky. “It’s Christmas Eve! I HAVE to go to church! If I don’t I’ll be a really crappy Christian! Even fair weather Christians go on Christmas Eve! A REAL one definitely has to go!”

“I know. But I’m sorry,” said the guy, shrugging. “But you’re too late.”

“What if you come at nine?” said another guy, also an usher. “We’re having a live nativity scene then.”

“REALLY? !”

Let me fill in for all you HEATHENS who might not know what a live nativity scene is. It’s when real peoples, like you and me but probably not you, you heathen, dress up as all our favorite characters from the greatest story ever told — the story of how Jesus was born. There’s Mary and Joseph and the three Wise Men and a bunch of animals and the guy who runs the inn who wouldn’t make room for the Mother of God, that jerk. You think Holiday Inn would have pulled that crap? Oh no. Anyway, they all dress up and act it out and people can come and watch and it’s cool.

“No, I don’t think we’re gonna be able to do it tonight,” said first church guy. 

“Why not?” asked the other.

“Both our Joseph and one of the wise men called out sick,” he replied. “They both have pneumonia from standing out in the cold all the other nights we did this.”

“NOOOO!” I shouted.

“That, and for some reason, the mother of our baby Jesus decided she didn’t want him to be outside in the cold for hours either!”

“That selfish harlot,” I scoffed.

“Yeah, I don’t see how we can do the scene without three members of the cast,” agreed first church guy.

“No, wait!” I said suddenly. “What if _we_ do it?” I motioned to me and England. England looked annoyed when I did that. “We can be Joseph and the wise guy!”

“You two?” They seemed to be thinking about it.

“Yeah! I mean, it’s mostly just standing around anyway. We can do it! We can stand around!”

“But what about the baby Jesus?” asked the usher.

“Hmmm.” Now that was a bit tougher. Neither me nor England was a baby nor had a baby. And we didn’t know anyone who had a baby. At least not well enough to be like ‘Hey, can we borrow your baby and let it be out in a cold December night in a pile of hay for a couple hours? Kaythanks.’

“We could use a doll,” suggested one of the ushers.

“I don’t know …” said the other.

“No way! That’s lame!” I said. “Using a fake Jesus? That’s like saying Jesus is fake! And if he’s fake who makes the sun go up in the morning and down at night? And the tides come in and go out? _Science?_ PSHHH PLEASE. It’s Jesus.”

“By God he’s right!” said one of the ushers.

“God …” said England. But I don’t think he was praying because he rolled his eyes like he was annoyed.

“We can’t use a doll!” I said. “It’s called a LIVE nativity scene! How can we call it that if we use a doll for the most important character? I mean, if you use a doll, you might as well call it a puppet show! And while I do love puppet shows with all my heart and soul, they are not the reason for the season.”

“You’re right,” they agreed. “But where will we find a baby at this hour?”

“Don’t you worry, my good church man. I promise to you that I will find a spare baby, and the show will go on!” I vowed.

“But where will you find one?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll figure it out. God will find a way.”

They both nodded solemnly and England sighed, annoyed.

X

“There’s gotta be a baby around here somewhere,” I said as I drove. “We have an hour. We can do this.”

England padded his coat like he was looking for something in it. But I knew he didn’t have a baby in there so I didn’t care. “You’re an idiot.”

“Wanting to be a part of church and save the live nativity scene on Christmas Eve is not stupid. OOH! We should go to a hospital. There’s always babies in hospitals, right?”

“You can’t take a newborn, Christ. Do you even listen to yourself before you talk?” England took out a lighter and a box of cigarettes.

“You get meaner when you get sober, Engl — HEY NO SMOKING IN MY CAR!” I yelled at him. “I hate smoking! Put away your cancer sticks, SMOKER!”

England flicked on the lighter and held up a cigarette to it. “No.”

“What do you mean NO? ! It’s MY car! Smoking is disgusting! I hate the smell and it makes my eyes water!”

“Well, I’m almost sober now and realizing how shitty of a night this is. So you either drive somewhere to get some more liquor, or you let me smoke. Or fuck me. Any one of those three things to take the edge off.”

“NOOOOOO!” I whined. “All three of those things are SINS! And GROSS! Especially the buttsex one. But ESPECIALLY the smoking!”

England took a drag. “Quit whinging.”

“NOOOOOOOOO! Put it OOOOOOUUUUT!”

“You are really — oh, fuck!” Suddenly England gasped and the cigarette flew right out of his mouth! Haha, I win.

My eyes kept moving between the road in front of me and him in the passenger seat. He looked very shocked. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

England winced and grabbed his chest. “Shit …”

“Don’t worry, England!” I said. “I was already on the way to the hospital! Hang in there!”

“No, no, I’m fine,” said England. And then he smirked. “Just took me by surprise, is all.”

“Huh? What did?”

“It’s a curious thing.” England was getting weird. I kept my eyes on the road so it wasn’t too awkward. “Did you know that when a mother hears her baby’s cry, her milk automatically lets down? It flows on its own. A miracle of the human body, really. It reacts so swiftly to the baby’s need.”

No, I didn’t know that :I

*THE MOAR I KNOW* (though I didn’t want to.)

“In fact, this reaction is so strong,” continued England in a serious creeper way. “That any noise resembling a baby’s cry makes their milk flow.”

Crap …

“And that includes your incessant WHINING.”

D:

“Are you saying my whining about you smoking made you make milk all over yourself? !”

“Yes,” replied England, who looked way too happy about this. “Keep it up and it’s going to reach your tacky snowman sweater.”

“NOOOOO I LOVE THAT SWEATER!”

England shuddered. “Yeah, that did it. I felt more come out.”

“UH OH SPHAGETTIOOOOOOS WHAT DID I DOOOOOO? !”

“And there’s some more.”

D:

England shivered. “It’s warm when it comes out but chills quickly.” He took another drag of a new cigarette. “I should take off these layers so I don’t get these clothes wet.”

“DON’T STRIP IN MY CAAAAAAR!”

“Thanks for another trickle. Wow, you don’t learn very fast, do you?”

I pulled over on the side of the road. I put the car in park but still stared straight ahead.

“Oh good, you stopped the car,” said England, unzipping the coat. “Now you can help lick up all this milk.”

I still stared dead ahead, eyes wide.

England pulled the snowman sweater over his head. “I think they’ve gotten even bigger. It seems they swell a little bit when you whine. They’re swollen with milk.”

I still said nothing.

England took off the shirt under that. Nothing was left except the tank top, which was wet and since it was white, you could see pretty much everything. It was stretched to the max because his breasts were so big and his nips were hard. “Suck them, America,” England said in a husky, sexful voice. “Suck the milk out of me.”

And then I quickly opened the door and jumped out of the car.

Okay, fell. I meant to jump but I was in a hurry and yeah.

“OOF!” I yelped, hitting the ground.

“Come on, America.” England leaned over his seat so he could see me on the ground. “Why won’t you just fool around with me _just once?_ ”

I quickly jumped up and dusted off my suit. “I told you! Jesus wouldn’t like it! I’m a dude, you’re a dude, and I’m a STRAIGHT HETERO!”

I accidentally started to say that sentence in the tune of that old Goodburger bit. Does anyone remember that? With Kenan and Kel from All That? ‘I’m a dude, he’s a dude, she’s a dude, we’re all dudes, HEY!” Y’all remember that, right? … no? Just me? Okay …

“But it’s Christmas Eve.” I think England is the first person to ever say that line while rubbing one of their nipples seductively. At least, I sure hope so. “ _Christmas Eve_ , America.”

Dear Lord. Do people usually have sex on Christmas? Like … is that a thing? GOOD GOLLY GOSH! If it is, you people should be ashamed of yourselves! This is the day of our dear savior’s birth who came to Earth by divine miracle to eventually die for our sins and you’re using that day to FORNICATE WITH YOUR GENITALS? Shame on you! At least wait until Boxing Day. I mean, that’s not even a real holiday. That’s why I don’t celebrate it. Kwanzaa too.

“NO MEANS NO!” I yelled. “I chose to be straight, okay? Because that’s what Jesus likes. It’s Adam and Eve not Adam and STEVE! Can you imagine what like would be like if it was Adam and Steve? No, you can’t, because Steve Jobs hadn’t been born yet.”

“But my tits aren’t male,” said England. “They’re like a woman’s. If you like them, you’re still straight, aren’t you?”

:I

Mind=blown.

But not really in a good way. It just made me ... even more confused.

“But they’re on a dude’s body!” I said. “If I have sex with you, I’d still be gay, no matter how nice your rack is.” 

“Is it pretty nice, isn’t it?”

“Y—LOOK WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS.”

The church was counting on me for the Christmas Eve service to go on, and England’s over here trying to distract me with his VOLUPTUOUS BREASTS. Ain’t nobody got time for that!

“Just feel them,” said England. “I bet you’d like it.”

“I bet _you’d_ like it.”

“We don’t have to do full anal if you don’t want to. Just some touching and fooling around — that’d be good enough for me. I can still get off on that.”

“UGGGGHHH!” I exclaimed. “I don’t wanna hear anymore gay talk! Don’t you know Jesus is listening? It’s almost his birthday. He doesn’t wanna hear about ANAL on his b-day.” (The b in b-day doesn’t stand for BUTTSEX, you guys.) “Just because you like getting things like dildos and prostate massagers for YOUR birthday doesn’t mean Jesus does. Did the three wise guys bring baby Jesus gay stuff like that for Christmas? No, they didn’t. They brought gold and myrrh and frankincense, whatever the heck those last two a—WHAT THE PSALMS!”

While I was explaining the greatest story ever told (Jesus baby’s first Christmas!), England took off his shirt! The last one all the way! So then I got another look at his huge, wet, sopping breasts.

“JESUS JOSEPH AND MARY AND OTHER WHORE MARY!” I exclaimed, blocking my eyes with my hand. “Don’t just whip them things out like that!”

“Like that tiny wet shirt left much to the imagination.” England pinched one of his nipples, wincing slightly. A little milk dribbled out. “Now you can lick it up.”

I slammed the door shut. Then I fell to my knees.

“OH LAWD!” I began praying. “Save England’s soul! He desperately needs your holy and divine wisdom and guidance and cock-blocking abilities! He needs your help to see the STRAIGHT way! Show him that being straight isn’t that bad! We may not have Lady Gaga concerts or get the joy of antiquing, but we can get married in a real God-fearing church like good folks, and we never lose at games like Smear the Queer, and we don’t have to worry about liking Twilight, and all kinds of other perks! Like getting into heaven, probably should have said that first. ANYWAY! Like Count Chocula cereal, England has messed with the occult and is now covered in milk. Please dry him with the towel of your great divine love and cure him of his incredible gayness, so that I may find a baby, and save Christmas, AMEN. Oh and P.S. tell your son HAPPY BIRTHDAY for me! AMEN for real.”

I opened my eyes but didn’t move. “… England?” I called very cautiously.

England rolled down my window. He was sitting in the driver’s seat now. “What?”

“Are you still gay?”

England blew out a long line of cigarette smoke. “I told you I’m not gay.”

“OH MY GOD DID GOD ACTUALLY ANSWER MY PRAYERS FOR ONCE? !” :’D

“I’m pansexual.” Another drag of the cigarette. “We’ve had this discussion before.”

“You’re attracted to PANS? UGHH! I knew you were kinky to a sinfully DEVIANT level but JEEZ! What other kitchenware gets you hot and bothered? Remind me to keep you away from my toaster. I put toast in those slots and I don’t want anything else in there …”

“That’s not what pansexual means—“

“DEAR GOD!” I wasn’t using God’s name in vain so please stop fretting, boys and girls. I was praying again. “It didn’t work! Not only is he still gay but now he has unnatural urges for kitchenware! Now I can never make Texas Toast without looking at the pan and thinking about two gay dudes sticking their penises in each other at the same time. Don’t tell me that’s physically impossible. That’s what scientists said about a virgin getting pregnant and that didn’t stop you, did it, God? BUT PLEASE! You’ve got to do something! Or gee golly heck, _I’ll_ do it! JUST GIVE ME A SIGN! ANYTHING!”

And then a divine miracle happened! A car drove by us. With its high beams on. Now normally that cheeses me off because it hurts my eyes and if I’m driving I do it right back to them like HA! An eye for an eye, you meanie. But this time it was okey because it illuminated something right down the road I hadn’t seen.

A CHURCH.

:D

No, wait …

A _CATHOLIC_ CHURCH

D:

Ugh, Catholics. I’m not a fan. They think they’re so much better than us Protestants just because they got like Saints and Popes and junk. But GUESS WHAT. That ain’t even in the Bible! You can’t just MAKE UP STUFF FROM THE BIBLE! You can’t just add stuff! Then it’s just like Bible fanfiction! They should do what us Protestants do instead, and just pick and choose what parts of the Bible we like.

No, wait …

IT WAS A NUNNERY

Full of NUNS!

“England …” I started, staring off at the nun place. “I … I think God is saying you should give up your life of debauchery and ding-a-ling taking, and become a nun.” It seemed strange, but if you think about it, it kinda makes sense. Nuns don’t have sex or marry. It’s called being Celebrex. If England was a nun, he’d have to stop doing gay things, because nuns don’t get none. That’s why they’re called nuns.

“Hell no,” said England. “How do you even know that’s what God meant? I bet he meant for _you_ to be a nun.”

“ME? !” I scoffed. “I’m already a virgin! What more does God want from me? !”

“Hmm, you’re right. Disregard that coincidence and get back in the car.” A pause. “I’m sorry, I misspoke. I mean to say _get in the back of the car_. There’s more room.”

“There’s no such thing as coincidences! God is trying to tell me something. BUT WHAT?”

“I bet he’s trying to say if you don’t hurry up and lose your virginity you will end up like a nun.”

England didn’t know what he was talking about. He doesn’t have a personal relationship with God like I do. Us Christians call it that, but don’t worry, it’s strictly platonic. I really don’t think God was trying to tell me I would end up like a nun. But even if I did, that’s better than ending up gay. Nuns can fly. I’ve never seen a gay do that.

“Come on, England,” I said, opening up the car door. 

England moved back into the passenger seat. “Where are we going now?”

“To the nunnery. I have to figure this out.”

“Damnit, that means I have to put my shirt back on.”

“Probably.”

X

When I got to the nunnery, I realized it wasn’t exactly a nunnery. It was a ‘group home’ RUN by nuns. That’s what it said on the sign on the outside. In case you didn’t know, ‘group home’ is PC liberal talk for orphanage. It was the kind of place crack-whores and irresponsible knocked up teenage sluts left their accidental babies on the doorstep of. See girls? That’s why you save it for your husband. If you don’t, you’ll either have to abort your baby and that’s a sin and makes Jesus cry because he too was also a baby, or you have to leave it with nuns and then it will end up Catholic and who wants that?

“Hmm,” I said, staring at the sign. “I hope God isn’t telling me to adopt an orphan and give it a much needed loving home. Because that’d really cut into my TV time.”

“You idiot,” said England. He didn’t put his shirt back on, just the big puffy coat. “If God is saying anything, it’s that here is a place for you to find a baby for the nativity scene.”

:O

“Oh my glorious GOD! You are so right, England!”

YAAAAY! :D This was perfect! I needed a baby, and I asked for God’s help, and through that 2009 Toyota Highlander he has shown me the WAY! Pssh, and all this time I was worried this had something to do with being gay. Silly me! I’ve known all along that the best thing to do with gay stuff is just ignore it and hope it goes away on its own. It’s just a distraction from important things, like borrowing orphaned babies for a night.

England tried to open the door, but it didn’t move. “It’s locked,” he said, but in a tone like he didn’t care or maybe even was glad! “Oh well. We failed. I suppose it’s time to go back home and finish … _exchanging gifts_.” MOAR LIKE EXCHANGING BODILY FLUIDS. Nice try, England.

“We can’t just give up! God wants me to take one of these babies, and I am.”

_SMAAAAASH!_

“The hell!” startled England, jumping back.

“God wanted me to shatter that window, and I did,” I said, holding a rock in a hand now dripping with blood.

“GOD!” he exclaimed in a panic.

“Yep, that’s who. Now come on. Hop through this window with me and help me find a spare baby.”

England watched me climb through the broken window (I’m pretty sure he was checking out my butt as I did so, as I could feel him eye-raping me.) After I was through he huffed and puffed like he was all mad and annoyed and didn’t wanna do this, but in the end he followed me. Probably to keep looking at my butt, that pervert.

The first room was just like a foyer or something. We went down a hall, looking around, but it was dark and we were guided only by God’s love in my heart telling me what to do and also the light from my cellphone.

There were doors in the hall. I assumed they led to rooms with orphans and stuff in them. We needed to find the one for babies. We poked open one of the doors, but the kids in that room were toddlers which was a little too old and therefore worthless to me.

One of them woke up when I opened the door. It was a little girl, no more than two. She rubbed her eyes sleepily and looked my way. “Santa?” she asked.

“Uh … yeeeeah …” I said. “I’m Santa. Go back to sleep or you won’t get any presents.”

“We’re gonna get presents?” she asked excitedly. “Sister Whoopie said God couldn’t afford presents this year.”

“Uhh … byeeeee.”

Then I closed the door.

“Brilliant job,” said England, rolling his eyes. At least they weren’t on my butt though.

Luckily the next one had babies in it. Not like two years old toddlers, REAL babies. Like one or less. Oh, and can I just say that I really hate it when you ask a parent how old their kid is and they say something like thirty-six months? It’s like, I asked how old your kid was, not for a gosh darn math problem. Say three like a normal person, GOSH! That has nothing to do with this story. Just wanted to say it.

“Hmm.” I started looking the babies over. They were in cradles and stuff, lined up in two small rows. “Now I just gotta pick one out.”

“If you’re really going to do this, you really should hurry. The nuns could wake up at any moment and find us.”

“Well, then help me pick one!”

“Any of them is fine.”

“Uh, NO. I need to pick the perfect one! This is JESUS we’re talking about! I can’t let the church down!” I said. “… plus I need a white one because God is white.”

“God isn’t any race.”

“BLASPHEMY!”

If God isn’t white, then why is his kid white? And I know Jesus is white because he sure looks that way in the inflatable manger scene I have in my yard next to the inflatable Santa on a tractor. Oh, and Santa is also white. Coincidence? I dunno, I kinda forgot where I was going with this.

Oh yeah. I needed to pick a white baby.

There were a couple, but the first one I found looked … off. I stared into its eyes and it rustled my jimmies. First of all, it was tiny. Tiniest baby in the room. Well, its body was. Its head was more or less normal, but with an itty bitty body. Actually, the head looked misshapen, like how babies look when they first fall out of their moms, but this one still looked that way despite looking a couple months old. It looked all disproportionate to its body too, being normal size. Also its eyes didn’t focus. They went in two different directions. It had a couple hairs, but like in random places. It had unusually thick eyebrows for a baby. Its nose looked smushed. All in all, it looked pretty jacked up.

“Ugh,” said England, making a face. “Looks like someone had a few too many drinks while carrying that one, eh? Or crack.”

I kept staring into its misaligned eyes. Something about it … I can’t describe it. It was ugly as sin and yet, I was oddly drawn to it. I felt like God wanted me to find this baby. I felt like he was telling me this was the one. This was the one to play Jesus in the nativity scene.

I picked up the baby and held it out in front of me. “I’m getting this one.”

“ _That_ one?” England looked disgusted. “It’s ugly as hell.”

“I know. It’s got a face only a mother could love. Except apparently not even she did because it’s an orphan.” I cradled the baby to my chest and it snuggled against me. “But you know what? It just feels right. God wants me to pick this one.”

“Ugh, you’re touching it.”

“It’s like in Charlie Brown. The Christmas special. You seen it? Probably not, as it has strong Christian overtones, and you are a godless sodomite, so I shall explain.”

SPOILER ALERT BOYS AND GIRLS! For the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. Though really if you haven’t seen it yet, what gives? It was made like in the 40’s or something.

“In the Charlie Brown Christmas Special,” I began to explain, “Charlie Brown has to get a Christmas tree for the Christmas play. The other kids send him off to go buy one. They wanted a fancy one and it was up to Charlie Brown to get it! But when Charlie Brown got to the Christmas tree lot, he didn’t pick out a nice fancy tree. You know what he picked? This crappy, ugly, little one. And when he brought it back to the other kids, they all made fun of him and his crappy tree. And Charlie Brown went home all upset because he got bullied, as this was back in the days before Bully-Free Zones. But then Linus told all the other kids what Christmas is really about, and recited a long part of the Bible — like REALLY long, even _I_ was like wow how long is this gonna go — and the other kids felt bad for being little buttholes to him. So they went to Charlie Brown and decorated his tree and liked it after all and they lived happily ever after.”

:)

But for some reason England was like -_-

“Don’t you see, England?” I asked. “This baby is like that tree. And I am like Charlie Brown. I guess that makes you like Snoopy or something. But whatever, the point is I _have_ to get this baby.”

“I’ll be Snoopy if you do me doggy style,” he muttered. “Hell, I’ll even bark as you do me, I don’t care what you’re into.”

But I ignored his faggotry.

“Who’s gonna make a good Jesus?” I said in baby talk to the ugly baby. “You are! YOU ARE!”

The baby started fussing.

“Look what you did,” said England. 

“Don’t cry, little baby.” I tried patting it, trying to simmer it down. “There, there, it’s okay.”

But it did no good. The baby started crying, like “WAAAAAAH!”

Suddenly England, who was still making his annoyed -_- face, looked very surprised like O_O . His eyes jolted open and he gasped.

“WAAAAAAHHH!” screamed the baby.

And the other babies started to wake up. They stirred and made little whimpering and fussing noises.

“Uh oh …” I said, glancing around the room.

Because then all heck broke loose. They ALL started crying. 

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! !”

England grabbed his chest. “Oh, fuck …” 

“Shhh, shhhh!” I tried to calm the babies down, but they wouldn’t listen to me. “Be quiet, babies! Don’t wake the nuns up! They will hit me with a ruler! SHHHHH!”

England was holding his chest and shivering. “Oh God, it feels like a faucet.”

“Huh?” I looked over to him. “What does?”

England unzipped his coat and flashed me! “This!” I saw his breasts were even more swollen, and steadily leaking milk. It was literally running down him. “It’s from the babies crying.”

“EEEEEEW!”

“Damn, it even hurts now,” said England. “They’re so swollen it’s painful. I need to get this shit out of there.” England grabbed a boob in each hand and squeezed. It was like he was milking a cow. I don’t even think he was trying to be sexual about it that time. I really think he actually was just trying to get the milk out of him. And boy did he get a lot of milk out! It squirted out fast, all over the floor where he aimed. It was like a squirt gun, but with MAN MILK.

“UGH GROSS!”

I covered ugly baby Jesus’s eyes. It didn’t need to see that.

We needed to get out of there. With all those babies making a ruckus, the nuns were sure to show up any minute and catch us borrowing a baby. And that’s probably illegal. I don’t wanna spend Christmas Eve in jail! Then how will Santa find me and bring me an iPad Mini?

“Come on!” I started jamming for the door. “Let’s go!”

Holding his milk jugs so they didn’t bounce all around, England quickly followed me.

We dashed down the hall. But then I skidded to a sudden stop, as someone stepped in front of me.

It was the little girl from earlier. She looked sleepy, like she’d just gotten out of bed.

“Santy Claus?” she asked, confused. “Why? Why are you taking our baby? Why?”

I was nervous for a second. But ya know, I’m so smart and so slick. I thought up a lie and I thought it up quick.

“Why, my sweet little tot,” I said. “There’s an eye on this baby that won’t work on one side. So I’m taking it to my workshop, my dear. I’ll fix it there, and I’ll bring it back here.”

Dumb kid bought it, LOL! I gave her some water and sent her back to bed. Kids love water. Then me and England kept running.

“I can’t believe you got away with that,” said England as we hopped out the window.

“I know, right? I’m not even dressed like Santa. What a stupid kid, haha!”

X

I was so excited to show all the church peoples that I’d gotten a baby. We’d made it just in time, too. It was about ten minutes until showtime. Which really means like fifteen or twenty, because you know how all shows start a few minutes later than they say they will. Why? Because we can, that’s why. What, are you gonna leave after coming all this way for a show? No, you’re not, so get over it.

“You know your lines, right?” I asked England as we walked into church. “I think it’s something like, ‘here you go.’”

“ _’Here you go’_?” England looked confused.

“Yeah. You say that as you give him the frankincense or whatever. Babies love frankincense.”

“I don’t think any of the Wise Men said ‘here you go.’”

“What do you know? You’re a gay homo.”

“Oh, you’re back!” said one of the church guys from before. “And you found a baby! Praise Jesus.”

“Yes, praise him,” said the other church usher guy. “I already do on a regular basis, but it’s always good to say it some more.”

I was holding the baby. It was snuggled up close to my chest. If you’re wondering how I got it there without a car seat, don’t worry. God is my copilot! And also a baby’s car seat.

I held the baby out to them. “One of y’all wanna take it so I can change into my costume?”

Then they both went from :D to D:

“UGH! What is wrong with that baby? !”

“Yeah, it’s hideous!”

I was expecting this. Hehehe … I knew it all along! Just like in Charlie Brown and his adventures. They mocked the ugly tree. Now they will mock this ugly baby. That is until I remind them the true reason for the season.

So I said to them, “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not; for, behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and goodwill towards men.”

(I know you didn’t read all that and just skipped over it. But that is literally exactly what Linus said so I understand. Pretty long, huh? I don’t blame you for skipping past it. God might though.)

“That’s what Christmas is all about, church guys,” I said.

:)

“What does that passage have to do with having an ugly baby play Jesus?” one of them asked. “Nothing, it just talks about Jesus’ birth. It doesn’t say he was an ugly baby.”

“Yeah,” agreed the other. “In fact, we say Jesus was a beautiful child all the time!”

:/

I glanced to England. He was wearing the puffy coat and crossing his arms, trying to keep his milk makers in check. “Help me out here, England.”

“Don’t ask me. I told you not to get the ugly one.”

“Looks like we will be canceling the live nativity scene after all,” said the usher. The other nodded.

“What? No, you can’t!” I exclaimed. “You’ll change your minds! You’ll see you’re wrong about this baby! Just like all the kids in Charlie Brown! They were wrong about that tree! It worked just fine! And so will this baby! After all, it was made in God’s image! So if you say it’s ugly you’re saying God did shoddy craftsmanship, and we all know he doesn’t, and neither does Jesus, he was a good carpenter, he was especially good at building decks and patios. So can you please just look into your hearts, and give this little guy a chance, and let the show go on, and we can enjoy a nice, wholesome Christmas Eve with a live manger scene like God intended?” :D

“No.”

:(

X

I went home and was super bummed. It was Christmas Eve, the most holiest of nights. Holiest as in holy like God-like not like filled with holes. I was talking about MY Christmas Eve — one of a good Christian — not of some sodomite like England who wanted his Christmas Eve filled with actual holes. Like buttholes, but anyway. It was the holiest of nights and yet how did I spend it? NOT going to church and stealing a baby and staring at England’s sinful sweater puppets. 

I don’t think that’s what Jesus wanted :(

So I was sad. I didn’t say a single word on the car ride home. I was so upset I wasn’t even hardly paying attention to driving. Like Carrie Underwood I was just like JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL! England didn’t say anything either. He just sat and leaned against the car window, looking out of it. He would grunt a little and squirm whenever the baby made some noise, like it whimpered and cried a little, but he never actually said anything to me or whipped out his AMPLE MAMMARY GLANDS, thank the Lord.

When we got home, I threw my tie on the ground that was never really tied anyway, and went upstairs.

“You can stay if you want,” I said to England as I was going up them. “But you’re sleeping on the couch.”

I crashed on my bed and so totally did not cry like a spigot into my pillow, you guys.

… okey, that was a lie. I did do that. I’m not gonna lie because lies make baby Jesus cry. And he doesn’t have a pillow to cry into like I did. He was born in a manger. That’s a word you never hear except when talking about where Jesus was born. You ever notice that? Every other time we need to say that word, we say ‘barn’ or ‘stable’ … weird.

Thinking about that made me say NOOOOO! I will NOT just lie around and cry like some emo kid or self-flagellating Catholic. NO WAY YOU GUYS! God wants us to be happy. He wants us to enjoy life, like Tim Tebow. Why God thought a cruel joke like making a football player who prays and praises him so gosh darn mediocre at the game, I don’t know, but God works in mysterious ways.

I decided the best thing to do in this situation was read God’s WORD. God’s WORD will always show you the way. It is his like exact WORDS. His exact WORDS paraphrased by his friends. I mean, God didn’t write the Bible _per se_ , because he can’t write. I mean, he CAN, he’s God — he can do whatever he wants. But for some reason he had to have friends write his WORDS for him. WORDS with friends. (Not the game.)

But everything in the Bible is what God says! It’s like an instruction manual for life. Plus lots of other stuff you’ll never need to know like how to cure a leper. If you’re curious, according to God, you get two birds and kill one, then dip the blood of the dead one in the live one and drip it on the leper. Pssh, and you thought it was treated with DRUGS! No, the Bible has the REAL answers. It really says that. I kid you not! 

It says all kinds of things. Did you know it also says if a man’s testicles are crushed or his penis is cut off he won’t get into heaven? Apparently this was enough of a problem that God felt the need to put this in the Bible. 

But I wasn’t reading Lorena Bobbit’s favorite passage. I was reading the greatest story ever told. JESUS’S STORY. It is my favorite. Well, actually, Noah’s Ark is probably my favorite story in the Bible. I like how it has animals, especially giraffes. I like giraffes. Oh! And I also really like the story of Jonah and the Whale because I like whales. I have one! But he never eats me because I’m not a sinner running away from God’s orders like stupid Jonah. Also Whaley is a baleen whale and his mouth is not suited for eating large prey like myself, more like stuff like krill. My other favorite book in the Bible is the one where Jesus and his disciples have to shrink down and go inside one of their friend’s bodies because he swallowed a watermelon seed, and they have to stop it from growing inside his tummy.

Those are my three favorites but technically I have to say the story of Jesus’s birth is my favorite because … well … it’s ‘the greatest story ever told.’ And all that.

So after a good cry, I was reading it, trying to learn from it and reflect upon the real reason for the season. If I can’t be in the play, the least I could do was read the script! Scripture. Ooohh I just got that! 

I squinted as I read. I realized as I was reading that the Bible never actually mentioned any animals being in the manger in the nativity scene. Even though in every nativity scene I’VE seen, there are sheep and donkeys and camels and stuff. What the …? This can’t be right …

_KNOCK KNOCK_

There were two knocks at my bedroom door. Then it opened and there were two knockers at my door. (England’s because he was at my door and he still had those huge boobs.)

“Hey,” said England, opening the door before I even said to come in. RUDE! What if I hadn’t been decent? Actually, he was probably hoping for that … “I know you’re upset, so I went and got you something.”

I looked up from the bed, where I was sitting there Indian style reading the Bible. “Huh?”

England came into the room with something in each hand.

“NUTTER BUTTERS!” I exclaimed happily. England had NUTTER BUTTERS! If you live under a rock or in some crappy Podunk country, Nutter Butters are peanut butter sandwich cookies and are so good it’s like God’s love exploded in your mouth. “Oh my gosh, where did you get Nutter Butters at this hour on Christmas Eve? !”

“Wal*mart,” said England. He had a glass of milk in his other hand. “I took your car—“

“WHAT you took my car—“

 “—and fetched some for you. I know how much you wanted biscuits and milk to leave out for Santa, and I knew how upset you were, I figured this would make you happier.”

“BOY DOES IT!” I said happily. “I LOVE NUTTER BUTTERS!”

:’D

England sat on the bed with me. I happily took the Nutter Butters and started NOMNOMNOMING away, like Cookie Monster, who hasn’t been the same ever since he found out Elmo likes underage boys, by the way. I had to set down my Bible so I could dunk some of the cookies in the milk. Don’t wanna handle the delicate pages of a Bible with milky fingers!

“What are you doing?” asked England.

“Reading the Bible,” I said, licking my fingers. “Did you know they don’t mention any animals in the story of Jesus’s birth? That blew my mind.”

England really liked watching me lick my fingers. I could tell by that smirk. Ugh, I never should have let him sit on the bed with me. Two dudes sitting on a bed together is GAY. I stopped licking my fingers and just ate the cookies like normal, and washed them down with the milk, without any more dunking. It’s a good thing England’s not around when I eat Dunk-a-roo’s. 

“Never thought about it,” said England. “Hey, it’s almost midnight.” He adjusted himself between the legs for a moment. “11:41 to be exact. Christmas is almost here.”

“GASP!” I gasped. “We better hurry and get to sleep, or Santa might not come!”

“Don’t you think we could stay up a little longer?”

I stopped chewing mid-bite. Because I realized England’s hand was running up the inside of my thigh.

“WHOA!” I said, jumping back, falling onto one of my pillows. “England, how many times do I have to tell you? ! I will not commit faggotry with you!”

“But it’s my Christmas wish,” he begged. “It’s all I want for Christmas.”

“What is? !” I exclaimed. “My PENIS? !”

What, did England expect me to cut it off and wrap it in a box with a bow on it? NO WAY! First of all, if you cut off your penis, you don’t get into heaven. And secondly, dick in a box is The Lonely Island’s idea, and I won’t just copy because I am more original than that. This wasn’t the first time I’d told England that, but he never listens to me.

“It would be nice,” England said, looking away with a smirk like he was imagining it. “But like I said, we don’t have to go that far. I would settle for anything.”

“Psssh, you mean anything SEXUAL and GAY!” I said. “You can’t be happy with just sitting on this bed and eating cookies with me. Oh noooo, you gotta take your penis out for this to be a good Christmas Eve. WELL GUESS WHAT ENGLAND! There’s no PENISES in the story of the birth of JESUS!”

“There’s also not any animals, but we include them anyway, don’t we?” said England like he thought he was a real wise guy. “Nor is Santa in the Bible. Or Rudolph or Frosty or any of that Christmas rubbish. And yet, it’s part of the holiday anyway.”

“You leave Frosty out of this!”

“ _Please_ ,” England begged. He was looking desperate, like a donkey in heat. I swear those were in the manger — they just gotta be! I can’t imagine no donkeys in the manger … “Just for _one night_ , put your homophobia aside, and make me happy … just for _one night.”_

“I can’t do that, England.”

“But _why_?”

I sighed deeply and dramatically. I wish I hadn’t eaten all the Nutter Butters. “I’ve told you a zillion times. I am not gay.”

“But you told me you _chose_ to be straight. So if you really think sexuality is a choice, you can choose to be gay.”

:I

“I told you, England. The Bible says homosexuality is wrong. Do you know what it says about queers like yourself?”

“Yes, I—“

“Shut up, I’m gonna tell you. It says, ‘If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.’” England didn’t seem as scared as I thought he would. “Did you hear me, England? PUT TO DEATH!” I said. “That’s quite a severe punishment for buttsex! God really hates it! So unless you want blood on your head, you should really stop getting gay with people, yes I know, for the Bible tells me so.”

“Like you obey _everything_ in the Bible,” England scoffed. “We all sin sometimes. Just ask for God’s forgiveness afterward.”

“I follow the Bible to the best of my abilities. Whatever it says, goes.”

“Oh really?” England seemed to think this was some kind of challenge. He made the ORLY face at me. “You don’t tell white lies at times to not upset someone? You don’t do any kind of work on the Sabbath? You don’t indulge in any gluttony — one of the seven _deadly_ sins — on occasion like eating an entire package of Nutter Butters in just a few minutes and not offering me even one?”

“You didn’t ask—“

“The Bible is full of random rules no one can possibly follow. Things like you shouldn’t pet rabbits or talk to women whilst they are menstruating.”

Oh no. Oh no he didn’t. OH NO HE DI-INT! Was England questioning the BIBLE? Which is God’s WORD? Everything in there is written in stone. Like literally, okay? It was written on stone tablets or something, I think. If you question the Bible, you are questioning GOD. And God totally hates that. He finds questions annoying, which is why he made them a sin.

“Well, I didn’t know that,” I said. “But if it’s in the Bible I gotta follow it, so from now on I won’t pet rabbits anymore and I won’t talk to chicks while they’re on their periods.”

“How the hell are you going to know if they are?”

“I’ll ask them.” Wait … if I ask them, that means I’m talking to them. Which means I might be talking to them while they’re on their periods. But I can’t know without asking. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. (Like literally! Damned to hell!)

“So you’re telling me, if I point to anything in the Bible, you will follow it?”

“Yep.”

“Anything?”

“Mmmyep.”

“Without question?”

“DUH! You’re not supposed to question God.”

England grabbed the Bible from me pretty quick. He started flipping through the pages. He was going through it like he actually knew what was in there! Psssh. Obviously they’re not too acquainted or he wouldn’t do all that sinning he does.

“Here it is,” said England, stopping at one of the pages. “Read Song of Solomon 7: 7-8.”

I gave him a suspicious look. How did he know a passage in the Bible and find it so fast? “Okay …” I said cautiously, taking the Bible back. I read it out loud, “‘Your stature is like a palm tree, and your breasts are like its clusters. I say I will climb the palm tree and lay hold of its fruit. Oh may your breasts be like clusters of the vine, and the scent of your breath like apples.’”

:/

There was an awkward pause.

“What the heck was that?” I asked. “Sounds like Shakespeare trying to write a crappy romance poem.”

England snapped the book shut. “Does it matter? It’s in the Bible.”

“But I need context—“

“It’s in the Bible. You said you wouldn’t question anything in the Bible. That’s a sin.”

“BUT I NEED CONTEXT!”

There was a _thump_ as England tossed the Bible on the ground. He crawled over on the bed, closer to me. But I was against the headrest and had nowhere else to back up to. 

England was on all fours, facing me. “Climb my tree and lay hold my fruit, America.”

“But — I don’t even know what that line means — like what is it even referring to—“

“Shouldn’t matter,” interrupted England. “It’s in the Bible. And you cannot question God’s word.”

“But but but—“

“You said it yourself. If it’s in the Bible, you will follow it.”

:I

Well, it appears I have found myself in a pickle. England wants my pickle inside himself. Or at least, to like, play with his boobs. What exactly does ‘lay hold of fruit’ mean anyway? The Bible is so cryptic. You can’t be cryptic about what base I’m supposed to go to. Is second okay or was God saying to go all the way?

I didn’t know what to do. On one hand, England was right. The Bible did say SOMETHING about climbing on top of him and holding his apple napples. Then again, that would be incredibly GAY, and as I have said before, I am not a gay homosexual. After all, it didn’t say I had to climb _England_ per se — that line was surely meant for like, a wife. A CHICK. You know … a WOMAN. (A non-menstruating one, of course.) (I don’t care even if they do lay down a couple towels and just take a shower afterwards. It’s a sin.)

Then again … it doesn’t say ‘she’ specifically … it’s in first person. Who writes in first person? ! It’s a terrible way to write, as you only get one side of everything. All kinds of crazy things could be going on with the other characters and I wouldn’t even know until it’s too late.

“By the way,” said England. “That milk I gave you was my breast milk.”

D:

“BLECCCCH!” I retched. “UGH SICK! What is wrong with you? !”

It was Christmas Eve, and instead of having cookies and milk like a normal straight person, I had BREAST MILK with my Nutter Butters. MALE breast milk. From the MAMMARIES of a DUDE! Last I checked, this was no holiday tradition. Does Santa let his elves suckle from his old, withered but jolly teats? No, that is Mrs. Claus’ job, because she is a woman, like God intended.

I held my tummy. “Ugh, I think I’m gonna toss my cookies!”

“It’s okay,” said England. He was crawling closer and closer to me. And we were fast running out of room between us. I leaned back to try to make some, but I hit the wall and my butt slid down. And then I was in this awkward position somewhere in between sitting and laying. “You liked it, didn’t you?”

 “I thought it was regular milk! From Wal*mart!” 

England pulled his shirt over his head. He wasn’t wearing a bra. “No, it was all me.”

“Whoa!” I shielded my eyes with my arm. “You gotta stop whipping those things out like that!”

England pressed them together, smirking down at me. “I know this turns you on. Just touch them.”

“NO!”

“Shhh.”

Suddenly England climbed on top of me. Even though he was the tree, not me. The extra weight made me slide down the rest of the way, and then I was lying flat on my back.

With England now on top of me. With his boobs hanging down just above my face.

I got really cheesed off by this. I was about to shove him onto the floor for trying to get gay with me, but right before I could, England pressed his AMPLE BOSOMS into my face.

I started squirming, because I COULDN’T BREATHE! He had very large breasts, you guys.

“Mmmph mmmph!” I whimpered.

And then he pulled them away. I could breathe again, but only for a few seconds. Because he shoved one of his nipples in my mouth. And said demandingly, “Suck.”

“Mmmph!” I protested.

“I said _suck_.” He held it in my mouth very forcefully. “The Bible said to do so, remember? Don’t argue with God.”

I couldn’t argue with God. I can’t even question. Can’t even PONDER! Whatever the Bible says, goes. And I told myself that over and over as I pushed back the tears, and sucked at England’s dudeboob.

“Yesss,” hissed England. “Just like that.”

There were tears in the corners of my eyes as I sucked. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I couldn’t believe this was in the Bible! Sexually explicit material in the Bible? ! That makes no sense! It’s bad enough 50 Shades of Grey is out there! And that there are FIFTY of those books! Weren’t the first one through forty-nine enough for perverts and sinners to get their jollies off too? Give your genitals a break!

It tasted … okay. I mean, I couldn’t taste a difference earlier from regular milk when I was drinking it from the glass with my Nutter Butters. Though now that I was suckling it like this, I could taste it better. It tasted a little weird. Like there was something in it just slightly bitter. A sharp taste, really. Something with a little bite in it.

… alcohol is passed through breast milk, isn’t it? :/

This was just a sin wrapped in a sin wrapped in another sin. A Russian nesting doll of sin. Thank God it wasn’t Russia making me breastfeed from him though. As much vodka as he drinks, his milk would be 80 proof. For those of you who don’t drink like me (yay go us!) 80 proof is a lot.

Neither of us spoke. All you could hear in the room as I nursed were these gross, wet gulping and suckling noises. I wished so badly I could have more Nutter Butters with this. I mean, I also wished I didn’t have to do this. But I’m just sayin’. If I gotta do it, some Nutter Butters would be nice. 

“You know,” England said finally, “when you were little … when I found you as a baby, you tried to breastfeed from me a couple times.”

I choked on his boob for a second. I pulled away to catch my breath, but as soon as I did, England put his nipple back in my mouth.

“You were so tiny and helpless back then …” he mused. “Okay, maybe not helpless. You tossed around buffalo and Native Americans as a hobby. But you were lonely and craved human contact and intimacy.”

I huffed as I gulped down another big sip of milk.

“And you always had one bloody hell of an appetite.” I hated when England got all nostalgic. Unfortunately, he kept talking, “A few times when I held you to my chest, you would try to nurse. You’d root your mouth on my chest like you were trying to latch.” And he even kept talking more, “I never let you, but I felt so sorry for you.”

I pulled away, and England’s breast fell out of my mouth. “I don’t remember any of this.”

“You were too young.”

England leaned down and pressed a kiss to my lips. It was brief, and he broke it nearly right after it started, then slid down my body.

I scrunched up my face. “Oh, GAY!”

“Calm down. It was just a kiss.”

England stopped sliding when he was between my legs.

“I suppose I can’t get you to take your clothes off,” he sighed. “It wasn’t in the Bible … unless you want to do it.”

“HECK NO!”

“I guess I’ll just have to be happy with what I get then.” England reached for his belt.

“What are you doing? !” I asked quickly. The Bible said to lay upon England’s melons, not whip out any zucchini! It only mentions fruit, not vegetables.

“Relax,” he said. “I’m not going to make you do anything. This is just for me.”

“… what is?”

ALL OF A SUDDEN England’s pants were pulled down just past his butt. He grabbed his penis, which was as hard as a pillar of salt. Like Lot’s wife I knew I shouldn’t look because it would make God angry, but I couldn’t help it. It was pure curiosity! I’d never seen anyone else’s but my own. And I was shocked at how HARD it was, just from England getting his nipples sucked.

“Just let me enjoy this.”

England leaned over me. He straddled over me. But he didn’t touch me. His arms and legs were on either side of me. Except for one arm, because it was attached to the hand that was currently holding onto his hard ding-a-ling. He started to stroke it.

My eyes were nearly bugging out of my head. I couldn’t believe this! England had taken out his gay penis and was touching it front of me! On TOP of me! Even if we weren’t actually touching, this still felt very gay. Definitely enough to make God shake his head and go TSK TSK shame on you and your genitalia.

I should have punched him! Right in his wiener-loving jaw! But I was afraid to move. It was like I was trapped with him pinning me down. He wasn’t touching me, but ifI touched him, the movement might make his pee-pee touch me in some way and that would be really GAY!

So I lay there frozen in shock. Penis shock. Shock from a penis.

“Nnn,” moaned England. He was pumping his penis pretty fast now. Inches above my tummy. “I’ve pictured you below me so many times whilst touching myself …”

“Eeew,” I said, trying not to look at his man meat. “And I’m surprised you said below, considering how you’re a sodomite and love taking penises up your butt.”

“Below, above, sideways, any and all directions,” he panted. “B-but … it’s so much better in reality. My imagination is a poor substitute compared to the real thing.”

I don’t know why this was getting England off. I mean, I had all my clothes on. Well, they were my suit. And he did say me wearing a suit turned him on. Hmm. No wonder he uses the ‘world meetings’ excuse so much … he must get aroused every time I go to one, since I always wear suits to those darn things! Except casual Fridays. Then it’s a button shirt with khakis because jeans are ‘ _too_ casual.’ Whatever. They’re lucky I don’t wear my pajama jeans. THAT’S casual.

If you’re wondering why I didn’t make him stop, look, STOP JUDGING. I told you I was frozen in shock, okay? In fact, for a few seconds I was like SUPER frozen. I couldn’t move except I trembled and I felt weird and was just like ASDWEOPOWIERO;JSDF (I think that was my brain going into homo shock.)

What a weird Christmas Eve.

“England …” I said, still not looking at his jibbly bits. “I’m … I’m still a virgin, right?”

He didn’t respond.

“Like … even because … of what you’re doing over me?”

England grunted. He was breathing really hard now. “… y-yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m p …. positive.” His voice sounded ragged. “You’re not doing … nnnf … a-anything.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. “R-right.”

What had been rhythmic stroking became all fast and uneven. England moaned again.

“This wasn’t what was in the Bible,” I said. “You climbed on me. It was supposed to be the other way around.”

“… do … do you want to get on top of me?”

“NO!”

Didn’t matter anyway. Because suddenly, England’s breath hitched and he grunted. Then my suit was wet. With PENIS MILK. That was even grosser than breast milk! Because it wasn’t milk at all, it was SEMEN!

I watched as England finished off on my tummy. It came in spurts. And I was disgusted, frozen in HORROR! Because I thought he wasn’t gonna touch me. Yet I have his SEMINAL FLUIDS all over my belly! I could just FEEL those little spermies swimming around on me like little tadpoles. Little GAY tadpoles. UGH!

“GRRRROOOOOOSSSSS!” I exclaimed. “GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF!”

England heaved a big sigh and rolled off me. He didn’t seem to care about the mess he left on my tummy! (And suit! Now how am I gonna explain that to the peoples at the dry cleaners? Just tell them it’s mayo? Because they’re gonna know. By the smell.)

“Calm down,” snapped England, lying beside me, trying to catch his breath. “It’s just cum.”

How many times have you EVER heard that sentence before? ! ‘Calm down, it’s just cum.’ JUST cum? ! JUST? ! Few bodily fluids are grosser than SEMEN JUICE! How am I supposed to CALM DOWN? !

“Get some paper towels, GOSH!” I demanded.

England quickly sat up. But not for some Bounty. Nor Scott. Not even Brawny! (I assumed that was England’s favorite paper towel brand because it has a strong, handsome man on the front and England is a sodomite and likes dudes like that.) No, England grabbed something else. ME.

Pacifically? Between my legs. Grabbed himself a handful and squeezed.

“EEP—“ I squeaked.

“Just wanted to see if that aroused you or not.”

“ … uh …”

“Wasn’t homosexuality a choice?” England sat up. “That’s what you said.”

“England—“

“Don’t worry.” England hopped off the bed, I assume to get those darn paper towels. “You’re still a virgin even if you involuntarily cum whilst another man wanks over top of you.”

:I

X

When I woke up the next morning, it was Christmas. England wasn’t in my bed and it was almost like what we did last night didn’t even happen. Everything seemed normal except I was wearing a different pair of pants.

I happily ran downstairs to see what Santa left me under the tree! :D

Guess what it was!

A PRESENT!

England had been sleeping on the couch, in the same room. “Nnhuh?” he startled awake because I was so BOISTROUS coming into the room.

I shredded that present’s wrapping paper. “OH WOW!” I exclaimed so happily. “An iPad Mini! Just what I wanted! OH BOY!”

I cried tears of joy :’D

“Thank you so much, Finland!” I said even though he wasn’t there. Finland is Santa IRL, in case you didn’t know that. “I don’t care if you’re a filthy sodomite too, you can come down my chimney anytime!” (Finland is a sodomite with Sweden.)

England chuckled. “Heh heh … ‘down your chimney.’”

“Yep! Oh, what’s this other present?” I picked it up. It was HUGE! I dunno how I missed that.

“That’s from me,” said England. “Merry Christmas.”

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously as I unwrapped it. “It better not be a dildo or something gay like that.”

“A dildo in a box _that_ big? Christ, what kind of dildos have you seen?”

I opened it and it was a big box FULL of packages of Nutter Butters. “NUTTER BUTTERS!” I exclaimed happily. “Wow, there must be like thirty packages of them in here! This will last me a whole month!” I looked up and smiled at him. “Thank you, England.”

“Ehh, it’s not much. I was in a hurry when I went to Wal*mart last night. Figured you’d be happy though.”

“I’m very happy. Honestly I would have been happy with almost anything that wasn’t gay like a vibrator or anal beads or whatever else you gays shove up your butts. But the fact that it’s a ton of cookies just makes me even happier!”

“Well, I’m glad.”

“OOH! Hold on.” I raced out of the room, but returned with another gift. “This one’s for you.”

England opened it. It was an Easy-Bake Oven.

“It’s an Easy-Bake Oven!” I said. “But this is one of those new GENDER-NEUTRAL ones! So it’s not gay.” Have y’all heard of the new gender-neutral Easy-Bake Ovens? NO? Where have you been? ! It’s the new thing now! Now boys can bake in a BLUE oven and therefore it’s not gay. Cooking in a pink oven is gay. Not that they’re real ovens. More like a box with a very hot light bulb in it, but you know. “Since I know how you suck at cooking. I figured if childrens can use this, even you could probably make something!”

“Thanks.” England rolled his eyes but kinda smiled at the same time. I hoped he wouldn’t have sex with it. (I know he has a thing for pans.)

Just then I realized England didn’t have boobs anymore.

“Whoa, England!” I said. “What happened to your chesticles?”

England sighed. “The spell must have worn off during the night.”

“Oh.”

“WAHHHHHHH!”

Me and England both turned and looked. That ugly baby was on the floor crying.

“Oh, I forgot about that baby,” I said. 

“I didn’t,” said England. “I took care of it after last night and this morning.”

“Oh? Did you nurse it?”

“Hell no. That ugly thing wasn’t going anywhere near my amazing tits.”

“We should really return it to the orphanage.”

X

So we went back to the orphanage. But when we knocked on the door, no one answered. Where I broke the window was boarded up some time during the night, but now it seemed no one was there.

“We should have known no one would answer Christmas morning,” said England. “They’re technically closed.”

“But they’re in there,” I said, holding the ugly baby. “All the orphans are in there! And whoever watches the orphans, too!”

“But they’re closed, so they’re not going to answer the door.”

I thought about just breaking a window open again. But seeing how the first was just boarded up with like plywood and duct tape made me think that probably wasn’t such a good idea. That isn’t very insulating. If I keep smashing windows, these orphans are gonna freeze. And making orphans freeze isn’t very Christian. It doesn’t say that in the Bible specifically, but it’s probably implied.

Besides. I kinda liked that baby. I didn’t really wanna give it up just yet. “I suppose we could watch it for one day,” I said, smiling. “Then bring it back tomorrow when they’re open.”

“You mean leave it at the door, right? No way in hell are we confessing to this. Stealing babies is illegal.”

“Hehe … oh heck yes, we’re leaving this thing at the door before dawn. I ain’t going to jail.”

As we walked away, I was amused by something.

“Ya know …” I started. “I was upset I wasn’t gonna have a very Christian Christmas. But now, as a virgin and his partner are turned away with a baby because they can’t be taken in on Christmas … well, that sounds pretty similar to the greatest story ever told.”

:)

“… partner?”

:I

“I meant like partner like fellow human!” I said. “Fellow country! Country-human … things.”

England gave me a sly glance. It was very homo of him.

“By the way,” I said to change the subject. “How come Santa didn’t bring you anything for Christmas?” 

“He did,” said England. “It was just coal.”

“YOU WERE A BAD BOY THIS YEAR!”

“I suppose I was.” England smirked at me. “But next year I’m going to be good so I get what I really want for Christmas.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“I relate to that music group The Lonely Island in more ways than one,” he said. “You don’t have to cut off your dick to put it in a box, you know. Just cut a hole in the side, push your penis through, and hold the box up to yourself. It’s fairly simple.”

:/

(The end!)


End file.
